Return To Sender
by ExecutiveHPFan
Summary: For Olivia, the most terrifying thing in the world is two crossed lines.


**A/N**: This isn't political, or religious, or my opinion about the issue, or me trying to influence yours. No statement is being made, no judgment is being cast.

I will say, though, that this was the most difficult thing that I have ever written in my life.

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**Return to Sender**

* * *

For seven weeks, she hasn't looked at herself in the mirror. She wakes up in the morning to an alarm clock nestled next to photo frames of her family that have all been turned down, she climbs out of bed and goes to the bathroom, takes a shower, brushes her hair. She goes to work and fixes problems, smiles and laughs with her employees. She comes home and makes herself a bag of popcorn and doesn't let herself reach for the wine.

Before she goes to bed at night, she marks off another day on the calendar in her daily planner.

Her life is dictated by secrets and lies and words that are never said. This is just one more, she tells herself when the alarm clock jolts her out of a dream filled with little hands and feet and the ringing echo of a laugh she will never hear. She doesn't get sick in the mornings, she doesn't get headaches or swings in her appetite. She doesn't think of pronouns or decorations or the spare bedroom in her apartment. The seven weeks pass as though nothing has changed.

And nothing has changed. Nothing _will_ change. Not because it can't, but because she doesn't _want_ it to.

The night after she makes her appointment, she lowers herself to her knees next to her bed, puts her elbows on the mattress and for the first time in years, bows her head.

_ Please, God, don't let this be any more difficult than it already is. _

She keeps herself busy, lessening the dark, quiet moments when it all comes rushing back to her and twists her chest. She doesn't watch news channels any more than strictly necessary and changes the channel every time a station shows him boarding Air Force One, greeting diplomats or at podiums.

He will never forgive her for this. She will never forgive him for it, either.

She takes the day before the appointment off work. Not because she wants to, but because she has to. Because instead of waking up with her alarm clock, going to the bathroom, taking a shower and brushing her hair, she wakes up ten minutes early and runs for the toilet, stomach churning.

And that's when she realizes that _everything_ has changed.

And seven weeks of not looking at herself or photos of her family and of flipping the channel every time he came on TV has not made her forget what she looks like, what they look like, what _he_ looks like, or helped her forget the possibilities. A thousand different combinations of a face she'll never see float through her mind, blue eyes and long black lashes and her mother's smile, her father's ears, her grandmother's dimples. Tiny little fingernails on tiny little hands that will never wrap themselves around hers and squeeze, curly hair that she will never comb, soft honey-brown skin that she'll never wash or powder or dress.

Unconditional love she'll never know. Love that may have been enough to erase all of this _pain_.

The floor tile is no longer cool by the time she pulls herself up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stands, flushes the toilet and dries her eyes.

When she finally looks at herself in the mirror, she knows that even if she never looks at herself again, she'll never stop imagining what her face would've looked like blended with his own.

She goes back to bed. She doesn't get on her knees, but she says one more prayer before closing her eyes.

_Please make sure it knows how sorry I am. _

Thankfully, she doesn't dream.

In the morning, she silences her alarm clock, goes to the bathroom, takes a shower. She doesn't shy away from the mirror as she brushes her hair because she has to learn to live with herself and with the possibility that she is closing the door on. She doesn't bother with makeup because she can't stop the thin trails of tears long enough to apply it, so she settles for pulling her hair back.

He is on the TV when she turns it on as she brushes her teeth, and she forces herself to watch. At one time, it would have been so easy to imagine him here with her, holding her hand. At one time, she would have needed it.

But not now. Not anymore. It doesn't make it any easier, though.

She dresses after, glad that she can't eat. For seven weeks, food has tasted like ashes.

He is still on when she reenters the living room, dressed and dry-eyed. She watches him for a few moments, taking in his features and the dark circles below his eyes, the tired slump in his shoulders.

A hand trails over her stomach as she straightens her suit.

This isn't about him, about protecting him or making it easier for him. It isn't about her not being ready, or being unable to do this on her own.

It _is_ about stolen moments, about shadows and lies and elevators and electrical closets and too many mistakes. It's about what's fair and what's not fair, about loneliness and secrets and the thought of being even more trapped than she already is.

It isn't about her not wanting it. It's about her not wanting it with _him_.

She wants this some day. But not now.

She turns off the TV, straightens her suit down over her stomach, gathers her bag and opens her door.

She hopes it's worth it.

She knows it never will be.

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END


End file.
